Chapter35
The funeral was held on a gray, windless morning—the kind where the world felt unnaturally still, as if nature itself dared not move, dared not speak in the presence of death. The sky hung low, swollen with unfallen rain, and Sydney couldn't tell if the heaviness pressing down on her chest came from the air or the crushing grief tightening around her ribs. The scent of damp earth mingled with the overwhelming sweetness of white lilies, clinging to her skin, her hair, her lungs. It made her stomach turn. She hated that smell now—hated how it seemed to mock her, blooming where her mother no longer could. Draped in black, Sydney stood by the casket, her hands trembling around the folded piece of paper she had written the night before. The eulogy felt like an anchor in her hands, water-stain
- Writer
